


Bad Blood

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Lucifer's Cage, Mark of Cain, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Smart Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley didn't get to be King of Hell without knowing how to apply pressure to the right places.  He kidnaps Sam to keep Dean in line.  Of course, having Sam in his possession has its advantages too.  Crowley has uses for Moose that go beyond his plans for Squirrel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agelade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/gifts).



> This is written in response to Agelade's prompt from tumblr:
> 
> You can blame this on caladria. What I want for this one is Crowley, wanting to use Dean and the Blade as a hired gun of sorts. He knows, just as Magnus found out, how to keep Dean in line. He knows just who to catch and keep in a storage unit if he wants Dean to co-operate, and if he gets to indulge in his bad blood addiction habit, that’s just a side-benefit. Give me some dark&twisted one-sided Mooseley, if you feel like it. (No non-con, please, but otherwise as flirty and gross as you want.) Cage flashbacks, Crowley sobbing over humanity and flipping without a moment’s notice into a sadistic bastard, Sam having to bleed on camera when Dean decides to drop his “mission” and try to find Sam instead. Whatever.
> 
> Supernatural and the characters from the show are not my property. I make no money from this or any other work of fan fiction.

Dean was in the middle of a dream. It wasn’t a Hell dream or a Purgatory dream, or a dream with the garden variety of monster memories that thirty-one years of hunting could and would leave you with. It wasn’t even one of the dreams he’d been getting more and more frequently since he’d taken on the Mark of Cain, the kind that featured lots of fighting and blood and gore and left him with uncomfortable sticky spots on the sheets. No, this was just a regular, garden-variety stripper dream. The kind where he was the only customer in the strip club and the dancer was a hot redhead in heels that defied physics and an easily discarded costume that defied decency laws in six states. Sam would have given him a freakin’ dissertation on both, had he been here, but Dean did not invite his brother to his dreamscape strip club. That would be weird. Plus dreamroot was hard to come by and not to be used lightly. And yeah, weird.

Since it would have been weird if he’d invited his brother to his dreamscape strip club, he found it exceptionally irritating when the opening riffs of “Smoke On The Water” cut through the somewhat more… suggestive… sounds of an Arctic Monkeys song. Of course his brother would have to intrude on the strip club. Sam was allergic to fun; it even caused an anaphylactic reaction when it happened in other people’s dreams. He looked down at his phone, only to realize that it had been replaced by sheets. He was waking up. Damn it. He was waking up and the phone was still ringing. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand. “You had better have a damn good reason for waking me up tonight, Sam,” he snarled into the mouthpiece, not even really opening his eyes. Strip club dreams were rare these days; he wasn’t thrilled about being forcibly removed from one. 

“Good morning, Squirrel.” The voice coming from the speaker didn’t belong to Sam, even though that ringtone only belonged to Dean’s bitchy little brother. Crowley sounded perfectly put together despite the fact that it was only – what, three in the morning? Seriously? “Terribly sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, but I have some work that requires your attention. I was wondering if you would mind terribly attending to it immediately.” 

He rolled his eyes and sank back against the headboard. “Goddamn it Crowley, I’m not one of your little stunt demons. I’m working with you to gank Abaddon and that’s it, are we clear?”

“Oh, you think so? How are you feeling, Dean? Been having a lot of dreams lately? Rivers of blood, heads bouncing around like footballs? Having trouble containing that bloodlust in the waking world too, I’d imagine. I saw your eyes in Sinclair’s little menagerie, Dean. I saw the desire. I saw the naked lust in your eyes. I thought you might well need a bucket of cold water, frankly. We both know that I have what you need.”

“What I need is Abaddon’s head on a plate. Yours is a close second.” 

“I have something that’s going to change your mind. Put your pants on, go open your laptop and open Skype. Believe me, you’re going to want to take this call.”

Dean hung up with an obscenity he’d learned from Alistair, one that didn’t even translate into English. His hand shook. One of these days he was going to get his hands on that slippery little bastard and when he did… The thought of ignoring the demon did occur to him. He could just let him stew in his own sulfurous and fetid juices, but at the end of the day Dean knew that he wouldn’t. Crowley wouldn’t have called if he didn’t have something big to pester him with. He reluctantly swung his feet over the side of the bed, pulled his jeans on and got dressed.

He opened up the connection Crowley initiated and was greeted by Crowley’s sneeringly smiling face. “Good morning, Squirrel,” he clucked again. “Good to see you so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Now. As I previously mentioned, I’ve got a little job that I want you to do for me.”

“And as I previously mentioned, I’m only doing one job – Abaddon.” Wait, that had come out wrong. “Screw you, Crowley. It’s too early for this crap.”

“I understand your reluctance. As I recall, the last time you were my employee I needed to apply a certain amount of leverage to ensure your cooperation. I suspected that this might be the case again, so I decided to take steps. Say hello to my newest and most reluctant business partner, Sam Winchester.” Crowley moved away from the screen to reveal Sam – or what looked like Sam, anyway – secured to a chair. His head hung down, indicating slumber or unconsciousness.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Damnit, Sam,” he sighed. “Is that even really him?” he asked in a louder voice. “Could be a shifter.”

Crowley shrugged and picked up a bucket from the floor, dousing Dean’s brother with its contents. Sam’s shaggy head jerked up instantly, accompanied by a stream of some dusty old language that time had long since forgotten. Crowley’s eyebrows ascended to his hairline. “Someone’s a grumpy Gus when he first wakes up,” he commented. “Remind me to find more… gentle ways of reviving you in the future, Moose.” 

Dean might not have understood the specific words coming out of Sam’s mouth but he got the spirit of them. “What did you do?” he spat. 

“Planting the seed was easy,” he shrugged. “All I had to do was put it out there that there might be a book about the Mark of Cain in an antiquarian bookstore in Chicago. And it wasn’t entirely a lie. He was looking for a book. Instead he found, well, Cain.” 

The First Knight’s face appeared on the screen now. “Good to see you again, Dean. It seems you’re neglecting your responsibilities.”

“My responsibilities begin and end with icing Abaddon,” Dean seethed. “I never agreed to anything else.” 

The bearded demon grinned. “Should’ve read the Terms and Conditions, boy. You need to know how to use that thing before you go up against someone like Abaddon. Now. You’re going to meet up with Crowley in front of the Frontera Grill in ten hours. You’ll get instructions there. Don’t be late. And take a shower. Your hair looks ridiculous.” The connection cut out. 

Dean’s chest heaved for a moment. Then he picked up the lamp and threw it at the wall. It was the third time he’d had to replace that lamp. Apparently some earlier Man of Letters had had a temper just as bad as his because they had a storage room full of replacements. Then he went to get a shower and move out; he didn’t have a lot of time. 

***

Cain didn’t stick around long after the call to Dean finished. He didn’t like Sam much. He kept scratching at his arm and complaining about how Sam “looked like Him,” and Sam didn’t really need a whole lot of detail on who “He” was to not want Cain around anymore than Cain wanted to not be around. Sam had a long list of things on which he didn’t want a refresher course; apparently Cain wasn’t terribly different. That meant that Sam was left with only Crowley for company. One demon for the price of two, which was better. That one demon was Crowley, though, which was pretty repulsive. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Moose,” the demon informed him. “Shall I fetch you a towel?” 

Sam took a deep breath. “ _Regna terrae, cantata deo, psalite domino &ndash_;“ He found himself cut off at a gesture from Crowley. No words escaped his mouth and his jaw would simply not move. Crap.

“Now now, Moose, let’s have none of that.” The shorter man gestured again and a white fluffy towel appeared in his small hands. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m sure sitting in all that damp isn’t exactly comfortable. Of course, I’m sure sitting in a chair like that isn’t exactly comfortable after an encounter with Cain, but who’s counting, right?” He approached and began gently toweling Sam’s hair. The hunter tried to lunge for him, but the chains that bound him to the chair were too good at their jobs to do much more than rattle. “I bet that doesn’t feel terribly good either.” 

Sam’s pulse thundered in his ears. He hadn’t been expecting Cain at the bookshop. Maybe he should have been. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so naïve as to think that there might be a book on a supernatural topic that the Men of Letters might not have in their collection. Either way, here he was again, and here he was being used against Dean again, and here was a damn demon putting his hands all over Sam again and why did this crap keep happening to him? Right – because he was the kind of idiot who kept walking into traps. Damn it. Getting into a rage wasn’t going to get him anywhere, though. Maybe he’d be able to use that anger later but for now he had to stay calm. 

The towel moved to his face. “I’ll tell you what, Moose. I’ll make a deal with you. If you promise not to try any exorcisms, I’ll take the gag off. What do you say?”

Sam stayed silent. He could feel Crowley’s hands, the feverish temperature that went with being a demon, through the towel. He didn’t want the touching. It reminded him in too many ways of the Cage, of Michael. Lucifer of course had burned cold but Michael – like Dean, all instant rage and burning hate – his touch had been searing even on the rare occasions when he hadn’t meant it to be. Sam needed to stay calm. Maybe Crowley’s touch was fevered but it wasn’t going to set his skin aflame or boil his blood. He needed to stay on top of the situation. 

“Sam,” Crowley said, so close to his ear that Sam could smell the sulfur on his breath, “it’s not in your best interests to exorcise me. You’re in chains, mate. Even if you could get free – and you can’t – this room is guarded by demons and by Cain himself. And he’s not your biggest fan, mate. It’s that whole Lucifer thing. Look, it’s not like I’m asking for your soul. You agree to this, I’ll let you talk. No kissing, even. Nod for yes.” 

Sam considered, then he nodded. Part of him recoiled with loathing at making anything resembling a deal with a demon, especially Crowley. On the other hand, maybe he could trip him up or find something out or just annoy him in some way. 

“There’s a good lad,” the semi-deposed King beamed.

“Does that mean you’ll stop with the towel now?” Sam asked. 

Brown eyes blinked. “Is this… This is uncomfortable for you?” 

“I’ve been kidnapped by a demon who’s running his hands all over my bruised body. You don’t think it’s a little creepy?”

“There are whole communities of people who write fan fiction about this very scenario.”

“Not helping with the whole creep factor Crowley.” 

“I suppose not. I am a demon, after all.” To his credit Crowley actually did back off. He surveyed Sam critically for a moment. Then he reached into an internal pocket and pulled out a little black book, consulted it, and regarded Sam again. “It will probably wrinkle terribly but there’s nothing for it I suppose.” He snapped his fingers. Sam suddenly found himself comfortably warm and dry, and dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit that closely resembled Crowley’s. “That’s better,” the demon grinned. 

Sam shifted. The levels on which this was not okay could not be counted without getting into theoretical mathematics. “You changed my underwear.” 

“It’s a thing humans do once in a while. Had you not been raised by hyenas you’d know that.”

“Silk boxers, Crowley?”

“I thought about red ones, because red and black go so delightfully together. But I think purple is a much better color on you, Sam, so purple it is. Not many Caucasian men can pull that shade off but you – you wear it well.” 

For a moment Sam was forced to simply blink, especially since he couldn’t actually see the color his antagonist was talking about. “Thanks. I make all of my wardrobe choices based on the tastes of demonic royalty.” God he wanted a bath. Sixteen baths. In bleach, if no stronger disinfectant could be found.

“You should. Or rather, you should make wardrobe choices, Sam. You try so hard to encourage people to overlook you. You always have.” 

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

Crowley’s phone rang. “Oh dear. Pardon me just a moment. Things to do, torments to inflict. I’ll just be a bit.”

Sam sank his head back. The chair, thankfully, had a high enough back that he was able to rest his head against something. It had at least been selected with something resembling a tall man’s comfort in mind. A tall man, who had just been undressed and re-dressed by a blood junkie king of Hell. He looked around the room. There wasn’t much to this place. It was probably a basement based on the humidity and the relatively low ceiling; he’d have to remember that if he managed to escape. The chains that bound him were strong and tight. If he fidgeted enough he could hear the padlocks where they hit the wood of the chair. His arms of course were bound to the arms of the chair and the padlocks behind, so he would be hard pressed to manipulate anything easily even if he could get his hand on some kind of bobby pin or paper clip. 

The room itself didn’t have much in the way of amenities. There was a laptop with a very nice external webcam plugged into it – apparently the stock model just wasn’t good enough for the King of Hell and his First Knight. Otherwise there wasn’t much of anything. A few outlets. No windows. A door – just one. So… that meant that the room was probably an interior room, right? The light fixtures were set into the ceiling; they didn’t hang down, so that probably meant a better sort of building than some abandoned dump in the middle of nowhere. 

All right. He had to figure some kind of way out of this. Crowley was being nice to him – now. Crowley had also happily set his arm on fire once without even batting an eye, so he wasn’t going to count on that kindness’ longevity. He had to admit that he found it kind of creepy. The touching was especially unpleasant. And here he was, completely restrained – he needed, desperately, to not think about the touching. He needed to think about something else.

He strained his ears. He could vaguely hear street noises that were appropriate to a city – the occasional siren, cars, sometimes people walking by. John had made them practice similar situations about a thousand years ago – five thousand – maybe twenty-five? – it was hard to tell, but a long time ago anyway. Back when he and Dean had been kids and he’d have preferred to be at soccer practice. This was something Sam had actually excelled at over Dean, escape practice. How often had John regretted teaching John to escape restraints? Even chains would loosen up eventually, given enough encouragement. Sure Crowley and company had been thorough. Sam was capable of being very patient. 

Of course he would eventually have to deal with the demons outside. It would be best if he knew exactly how many of them there were. There were ways to figure it out, of course. He could feel that power knotted at the back of his brain like a withered, ignored limb. It was all there, still there. It required only a little nudge to let it go. There had been a time when it wouldn’t have mattered how many demons were in this place, all he would have had to do would have been to _breathe_ and they’d have been a memory, a lingering aftertaste regretted by no one. Could he have taken Cain? Maybe. 

But not anymore, he reminded himself. He wasn’t willing to do what he needed to do to get to that level again. Nothing was worth that. Besides, he didn’t think that Crowley was exactly up for making donations. And nothing at all was worth falling off the wagon – not his life, not anyone’s life, because no one’s life was worth the monster he became. He needed to remember that. Still, he should be able to… reach out, right? He should still be able to sense them. The cravings were still there, he just clamped down on them the way he did everything else. If he just let himself feel, just a little…

There. Six of them – two outside the room where he was, two more upstairs and then two more a little farther away – outside maybe? That didn’t include Crowley or Cain, whose malevolence (and power, and blood) had an entirely different feel to them. He tightened the lid back down on the cravings – they’d served their purpose, even letting them out this long was running more of a risk than he felt comfortable running in the long term. And one of the Winchester brothers needed to think long term.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus. The walls were blank. Well, that wasn’t exactly new or different. He’d been in hundreds of places with blank walls before, right? Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Motels usually had something on the walls – crappy art, fire emergency instruction, new and exciting mold patterns. Abandoned buildings, too, generally had something to hold a person’s interest – water damage or fire damage, mostly. Detention rooms in school were just classrooms with normal classroom decoration. Dorm rooms got decorated pretty damn fast and even the occasional jail cell had “no spitting” stenciled somewhere. Or blood spatter. This place had nothing at all, and there was only one place that had nothing. 

He could stay on top of this. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, holding it for two seconds despite the pain from his fight with Cain. He exhaled long and slow, rested and repeated. _Abstineo, abstines, abstines, abstinemus, abstinetis, abstinent_ , he conjugated silently. _Abstineor, abstineris, abstinetur, abstinemur, abstinemini, abstinent_. Maybe Latin conjugations were a stupid coping mechanism. At least it was a coping mechanism.

It was a good two hours before Crowley got back to the room. By that point Sam had managed to calm himself down again. He sensed Crowley’s approach before he actually heard or saw him, which was convenient. He wasn’t sure that he liked what that said about him – maybe letting the cravings out had been a bad idea. In the short term, though, it meant that he was prepared when the demon entered carrying… a TV tray? With oatmeal and fruit and yogurt and… a rose? _Nanciscor, nancisceris, nanciscitur, nanciscimur, nanciscmini, nanciscuntur…_. “I thought you might be hungry, seeing as how your arrival here didn’t allow for any stopovers,” his captor informed him. “Nothing to drink, though. I’m afraid I wouldn’t want you getting ideas.” 

“Thanks for that, Crowley.”

“Not that I’m judging. Of course, I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for you and your brother. Chaining me up against my will, forcing your blood on me, turning me into a junkie –“

“If it’s any consolation to you, we weren’t going to make you live with the results for a very long time.” He made sure to give one of his best bitch faces to the demon.

“It would probably have been kinder,” Crowley spat. “You have no idea what it’s like, do you? This… need… for it. The rush of all of those feelings… You can’t comprehend it.” 

Sam looked at him a little more closely. “Is it getting time for your fix?” The signs were there. His eyes were puffy, maybe a little redder (and not in a crossroads kind of way.) His hand shook as he reached out with the spoon, digging slightly into the yogurt. 

“Need to get you fed first, Moose. You’re going to be here for a while. Can’t have you dropping dead from starvation on us now can we?” 

He was so not going to let himself get freaking spoon-fed by Crowley. He just wasn’t. “I’m not a big eater, Crowley.” 

“Come on, Moose. You need to keep up your strength.” 

Sam locked his jaw, set it and glared. He had no idea what was in that food. On the one hand it wouldn’t be in Crowley’s best interest to start dosing him with demon blood. Crowley was many things but “stupid” didn’t even come remotely near describing him. On the other hand, he’d already gotten one Winchester addicted to something under his control – why not awaken the addiction already present in the other, weaker Winchester? 

Crowley gave a little laugh. “You still don’t trust me, do you? Well, I can’t say as I blame you. He gestured and another chair – nothing fancy, a standard folding chair – appeared across from Sam. Another wave sent the tray of food away, just across the room. “I mean, has there ever been anyone in your life who wasn’t a demon who’s shown any concern for your welfare? And has that concern ever not turned against you in the end? You think that I’m playing a game with you. That there’s got to be some kind of ulterior motive to any kindness that I show you.” 

Sam shrugged. It wasn’t like any part of his life had ever been private anyway. “Did Linda Tran get tailored suits in the U-Stor-It?” 

He waved a hand. “Linda shouldn’t have been stored there that long. There was just a little matter of my being incarcerated when she should have been released. After all, she was only useful as a means of leverage over poor dead Kevin.” 

“And I’m such a prize.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Moose. Squirrel would have come looking for his nuts one way or another.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “Really sorry to have to do this to you, mate.” He held a massive syringe in his hand.

“If you’ve got about eight hours and some holy ground I’ll give you all the blood you need.” Sam gave him another smile, this one showing teeth. “I’m pretty sure we won’t be disturbed this time.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together. “Wouldn’t that complete the third Trial? And incidentally kill you?”

“If you want to make an omelet,” Sam shrugged.

“No, Moose. I’m afraid not.” He reached out and jabbed the needle into Sam’s neck, withdrawing enough to fill the chamber. “This ought to get me by. The blood in your veins – that’s something else. Do you have any idea how special it is? Do you?” 

“It’s been something of an issue in the past.”

Crowley put a Hello Kitty Band-Aid over the site. “You’ve got no idea what it’s like, being human,” Crowley said again before leaving. 

***

Dean met Crowley in front of the Frontera Grill. Of course then he wanted to go inside and sit down, have some enchiladas, a margarita or two. The place was pretty decent, Dean had to admit that. More Sam’s style than Dean’s in that the food was not burgers and had vegetarian options on the menu, but hey, the tequila kept the bloodlust at bay right? He let the little toad make small talk with him before he finally snapped. “Look, you limey bastard, where is Sam?” he snarled through a mouth full of queso fresco. 

“He’s safe. Cain is with him right now. I can’t say that he’s Cain’s favorite person right now but the old boy’s had plenty of time to practice holding in that blood lust however much of Lucifer he might sense in our little Moose there.” 

Dean’s heart froze for just a moment. He and Sam might be on the outs – they’d probably be on the outs forever – but that was too much. “You left him with a guy who thinks he’s Lucifer?”

“Oh he knows he’s not Lucifer. Mostly.” The semi-deposed monarch waved a hand. “It’s just… well, it’s all that demon blood. And he’s Lucifer’s Vessel, isn’t he? He’s housed him, spent a good however long living with the bastard. He was built for Lucifer. And Lucifer – well, he ruined Cain’s whole existence, yeah? So… he might get a little… twitchy… around Sam. But it’s not like you care, right? I mean, as long as Samantha’s breathing you’re good.”

Someday – probably soon – Dean was going to cut off Crowley’s head and mount it on the Impala’s hood like a flag. “So if I do this job for you, you let Sam go?”

“Good Lord, no. I’m keeping Sam until Abaddon is dead and gone. Besides, I quite like his company. I need to keep you on task, Dean. If the only way I can do that is to keep your brother chained up in a basement then I will. Now. The nursing home next to the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre site has a nest of demons loyal to Abaddon. I want their heads. There should be a good ten of them in there if my sources are correct. I’ll even give you a ride. It shouldn’t take you more than fifteen minutes. If you succeed, baby brother gets fed. If not, well – you know how that goes.” 

“Let me talk to Sammy.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes but he grabbed his phone and dialed it. “Cain? Be a dear and put the moose on the phone would you?” He paused. “Moose? There’s a squirrel here looking for some proof of life.”

He handed the phone over to Dean. “Sam? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Dean. It’s me.” He didn’t sound particularly hurt. Tired, maybe, but there wasn’t any new pain to his voice.

“They treating you well there, Sam?” Damn it, damn it, damn it. How did Sam always manage to get himself into these fixes? (Part of Dean pointed out that if Dean hadn’t rashly accepted the Mark of Cain without looking into the consequences Sam wouldn’t have been looking for new research materials, but he ignored that part. It was his mess, not Sam’s, and if he didn’t want to clean it up it wasn’t any of Sam’s damn business to go poking his nose in it.) 

“I guess for a demonic prison it’s kind of like the Ritz.” He snorted. “They keep trying to feed me.” 

“Don’t you go eating anything weird, Sam,” he advised. “You know you’ve got a sensitive stomach.” He hoped the stupid kid got the message – if he wound up drinking demon blood to get himself out of this mess Dean was not taking care of his sorry ass through the detox. He was eight thousand kinds of done with that crap.

“Yeah, no,” he replied. “No idea how long I’m going to be here, so I’m not exactly keen on living with the mess myself. Be safe, Dean.”

Crowley took the phone away and ended the call. “Aw, wasn’t that the most touching conversation I’ve ever heard. I’ve had more affectionate conversations with my own son, and he’s the one what told Bobby Singer where to find my bones. All right.” He paid the bill. “Let’s get moving.” 

The ride over to North Clark Street was actually pretty fast, and Dean couldn’t remember ever having ridden in such an upscale car as Crowley’s Bentley (or seeing Chicago traffic so mild.) The car pulled up to a stop right at the front door. “You’ll find them – well, you’ll find them.” He opened the center console and pulled out the First Blade.

“Center console’s a curse box,” Dean observed, eyes on the weapon. He could feel himself salivating at the sight. “Nice.”

“Yes,” the demon told him shortly. “It is. Now get going.” Dean grabbed the blade and walked into the facility. 

The next ten minutes passed in a haze of red. He didn’t remember much. There was some screaming. He remembered taking a few hits, but mostly what he remembered was the blood. He hacked. He slashed. He sliced. It wasn’t like it had been when he’d been Alistair’s pupil, no. That had been precise, deliberate. This was just… This was a frenzy, like Shark Week but on drugs. He staggered out ten minutes later without a single living soul in the room to which the Blade had led him. 

The Bentley was gone, replaced by an Aston with Crowley at the wheel. The demon’s face screwed up in disgust. “Drop it,” he demanded, gesturing toward another curse box. 

Dean snarled. 

Crowley held up his phone, on speaker. “Dean!” Sam panted. “Dean, drop the blade. Put it into the curse box.” Sam’s voice cut through the haze of red and before Dean knew what he was even doing he’d put the weapon into the box as ordered.

Crowley closed the box and gestured; suddenly Dean found himself dressed in a completely different outfit. This one, fortunately, was significantly less blood-soaked than the last. “Get in,” he demanded, and Dean obeyed. “Excellent job,” the demon praised.

Dean hated himself for the way that part of him preened. “All right, you got what you wanted. Let Sammy go now.”

“No. I told you. I need you focused. Find Abaddon, kill her and then we’ll talk. If he even wants to leave by then.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Crowley? He hates you more than I do!” 

“Does he, now? Maybe, maybe not. But will he by the time you find Abaddon?” 

“Dude. You killed Sarah Blake. Pretty sure he’s going to want to, like, make a wig out of your entrails or something.”

Crowley contemplated this for a moment. “You would make a terrible perruquier,” he advised finally. “Don’t give up your day job.” 

Crowley returned him to the Impala, and once Dean was ensconced in the front seat he found himself outside the Bunker. He grabbed his phone and dialed Crowley’s number. “Damn it, Crowley,” he growled. “Let me talk to Sam!” 

“No, Squirrel. I’m afraid your brother’s a little indisposed at the moment anyway. But right now why don’t you go and enjoy a delightful shower and an adult beverage? You’ve earned it. Enjoy some of those vintage lad mags you’ve got moldering about the place – I wonder how many Winchesters we could clone from those pages?” Dean made a face. “Get some rest. You’ll need it. Get some rest and start working to find Abaddon.”

“How do you expect me to find Abaddon without Sam to help me, huh?” Dean demanded. 

“You’re a resourceful fellow, Squirrel. I’d get to sourcing. Resourcefully.” The connection was terminated. 

***

Sam passed out after Cain hung up the phone. Cain had dislocated his elbow in an effort to get the right amount of pain into his voice. To some extent it had worked, because no matter what had happened to a man in the past when someone dislocated his elbow in the present it was going to be painful. There might even be yelling involved. He came to a couple of hours later, when Crowley put the same elbow back in place and put his arm in a sling. The rest of his body was still chained up, of course. “Terribly sorry about that,” the urbane demon told him. “I’m afraid Cain got a little carried away.”

“Wouldn’t want to actually hurt anyone or anything,” Sam pointed out.

Crowley held up an unopened water bottle and broke the seal in front of him. “Drink, Moose. Dehydration is not your friend.” He held the bottle up to his lips. Sam hesitated. On the one hand he was just not having any part of being hand-watered by freaking Crowley. On the other, death by dehydration was one of the worse ways to go – he’d done it three times, in the Cage. He drank. “Good boy,” his enemy praised. “I saw your brother. He sliced through a room full of fifteen demons like they were nothing. He’s doing well.” 

“He’s not your dog, Crowley.” 

“Isn’t he? That’s the thing about Knights of Hell, Moose. They need to serve a King. It’s in their nature. They’re not rulers. It’s not how they’re wired. Now Cain – he served Lucifer, and he served him well. He was less fond of Azazel, when Lucifer was less able to take a day-to-day interest in activities. But he served him well enough until he found someone he could serve better. He skipped over Lilith’s little reign of terror – the less said about that the better – and he was nowhere to be found during Luci’s little resurgence. But he’s not exactly on board with Abaddon, and do you know why?”

“Misogyny and the patriarchy?” Sam guessed. 

“I – look, I’d be perfectly all right with a Queen of Hell, all right mate? But Abaddon? She’s a disaster! She only cares about destruction and chaos! It’s nothing to do with –“ He glowered. “I don’t have to defend myself to you.” 

“You’re the one trying to.” Sam shrugged. 

“Meg would have been a perfectly good Queen. It’s why she had to die – she was my equal. Hell, she was Azazel’s daughter. Her claim to the throne was better than mine. Abaddon, though – she’s not a ruler. She’s not meant to rule. She’s a knight. All she brings is destruction and chaos because all she is is destruction and chaos.” He shook his head. “Your education was seriously neglected. You really should have learned this at demonic Sunday school like the rest of us.” 

Goosebumps rose on his body at the phrase. Ruby had used those words. “Yeah, well, I was busy playing hooky. I skipped Sunday school to go to, you know… school.”

“God, young demons and their values these days. Anyway, Cain chose your brother because he was worthy of the Mark – worthy of becoming a Knight of Hell. Have you noticed that he’s not exactly great with the long-term planning?” Crowley leaned forward now, right into Sam’s space. He could smell the sulfur again. This close he could practically see the smaller man’s pulse. That didn’t bear thinking about. _Potior, potiris, potitur, potimur, potimini, potiuntur._ “You need to be able to think ahead if you’re going to rule. You need to be able to see the bigger picture. You need to be able to see past the end of your nose, or your front bumper.”

Sam’s stomach roiled at the “young demons” comment. “I… guess that I can see your point,” he hazarded. “It’s not like I’ve ever had much of a conversation with Abaddon.” 

“You did set her on fire once, though.” 

“Well, yeah. There was that.”

“Good times.”

“There’s always a certain satisfaction to setting demons on fire.”

Crowley chuckled a little. “I think the Moose doth protest too much.” 

“Really? Because I’ve got plenty more protesting loaded up and ready to go.” 

He waited for a moment. “Your brother’s not going to rescue you, you know.” 

Sam forced himself to meet his eye. “I’m aware.” 

“I’ve got what he needs. He’s addicted to it. As long as I have it, he can’t make himself go against me. He just can’t.” 

Sam sighed. His back was cramping up, and so were his legs, and his feet. The shiny Italian leather shoes with which the demon had replaced his boots hurt. He hadn’t taken a step all day but the damn shoes hurt. “I know, Crowley. I’m an addict myself, remember?”

A little smile played at the corner of the demon’s mouth. “Ah yes. That’s right. You are, aren’t you? It never really goes away, does it? The hunger. The need. The want.” 

Not when there’s a five foot nine source of my drug of choice sitting so close to me I could drum out the rhythm of his shriveled little heart, Sam thought. “I’m on top of it,” he pointed out. “I’ve been clean for… five years? Four? Five thousand? Two hundred? A while.” 

“Mmm. True. And of course your addiction actually gave you something in return.” 

“Not really.” 

“What are you talking about? You were death on wheels, Moose! You rivaled Lucifer himself!” 

“And more and more of my humanity ebbed away every time I killed a demon.” He shifted, rattling his chains. “Don’t think I don’t remember that every time I feel a little thirsty, Crowley. And what about you? Don’t you feel that your addiction gives you something back?”

He snorted. “Soggy handkerchiefs and empty IV bags.”

“You get your feelings back. Your conscience. The possibility of redemption, Crowley. More than just the overwhelming urge to stick your hand up vending machines.”

“A demon doesn’t have much use for that sort of thing, Moose. The King of the demons especially. Don’t you remember this?” He put a bare hand on Sam’s neck and suddenly Sam was back in the Cage. 

_The smell was the worst. He remembered what the construct Zachariah had made of his mother had told them, about thinking she’d left a roast burning but it having been her meat. Well this was Sam’s meat, his hair having burned off some time ago and there were no lungs left to scream with but he was screaming anyway. “Come on, Sammy-boy,” Michael growled in his ear. “I thought you liked it warm!”_

For a moment Sam was so caught up in the flashback that he screamed, but after a second or two he began to notice the differences. Dean had told him once, back when the Wall first fell and he couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Pain in the living world was different from the pain of flashbacks – not that one was less painful than the other, but they were different. He found the pain in his elbow and focused on it. Inhale for five, wait two seconds, exhale. Repeat. He glared up at Crowley, who stared down at him through red eyes before leaving. 

Alone in his cell Sam was left to contemplate his situation again. He still wasn’t sure what Crowley wanted from him. Somehow it always seemed, though, that demons kept coming back to the blood. He’d though he was free of that crap after the Cage – not entirely, it wasn’t like he could scrub it clean even with dialysis or even a full body transfusion, but now even Crowley kept talking about “young demons,” and things he should have learned in demon Sunday school like he was just some demon in denial.

And the thought was always there, of course. Maybe he was just in denial. Dean had told him so, back in that hotel before Sam broke the world and Lucifer rose. He’d said it again on that voice mail. Sam had always been a monster. He always would be, there wasn’t any going back. You couldn’t run from what was inside you. But all that crap about ruling, about the role of the Knights of Hell and why Abaddon could never rule – what was all that? Standard evil villain monologuing? And that crap about Meg? He’d killed Meg because she’d gone after him, because she was a Lucifer loyalist and she couldn’t tolerate the idea of a usurper like Crowley on the throne. She’d had followers, too. Not a huge number of them, because Lucifer had, well, lost and it had been one of Azazel’s own that had taken… oh… That couldn’t be Crowley’s angle. “You have got to be kidding me,” Sam growled. 

Maybe that wasn’t his angle. Maybe he just wanted Sam to think that was his game, to make him believe that was why he was sitting around and buttering him up. Maybe in reality he was just trying to get Sam to be complacent, on his good side so he wouldn’t fight him. Maybe there was something about the filth the angels who’d used him had left behind in his blood that made it exceptionally delectable to the blood junkie – demon blood Sam knew, human blood not so much. 

But Crowley was a usurper and the changes he’d made to Hell were pretty radical. He might be looking to win over some of the neutral demons by bringing in what looked like more traditional parties against Abaddon. He had to huff out half a laugh. _Bet you never thought my poli-sci courses would be useful to hunting now, huh?_ he thought spitefully at his father’s memory, wherever it might be. 

He looked around himself. His flashback felt like it had lasted a good hour; his watch told him that it had lasted only a few minutes. Either way, something had upset the yogurt that was still on its TV tray. The oatmeal had splattered along the walls, too. Interesting. It could be something Crowley had cooked up for himself of course, just to mess with him. Of course, it could not be.

And what exactly did he have to lose? He wasn’t going to fall off the wagon. He wasn’t willing to allow that kind of dependency on anything again. He’d held back on so much of who he was, what he was, because of fear. Fear of rejection, fear of stigmatization, fear of getting the crap beaten out of him. Fear of being hunted. Someone who was willing to cram a goddamn angel into him, and then stick fricking Crowley in there alongside, did not have the right to look down on him for abilities he hadn’t chosen to possess. Some of which he’d probably been born with anyway. Inhale five seconds, hold for two, exhale. Repeat. 

***

Crowley waited until six thirty to call Dean the next morning. There was no false cheerfulness this time, just muffled screaming in the background and the sound of something flying and clattering onto the ground. “Dean!” Crowley snapped. “Something’s wrong!” 

“Jesus Christ, is that Sam?”

“Good Lord, you can recognize him by the screaming? What the Hell do you people do for family holidays? Play a rousing game of ‘Let’s Wrack Little Sammy?’” 

It half sounded like fun, actually, which meant that the damn Blade was getting its claws further into his brain. “What are you people doing to him?”

“I was trying to feed him bloody breakfast!” “Were you trying to feed him breakfast or were you trying to feed him a bloody breakfast? I know it’s the language thing but that could be an important distinction here.” He snickered. “Did you try to give him bacon, Crowley?”

“Well yeah, he wouldn’t eat the yogurt yesterday so I had to give him something a little more substantial today. Why?”

“Bad move. He screaming in Enochian?” 

The demon paused. “Sounds like.” 

“Get anything made from glass out of there. He’ll be at it for a couple of hours. You’ve triggered an epic flashback, man.” He snickered. Served the bastard right. 

“With bacon? Everyone loves bacon.”

“Sometimes even Sammy loves bacon, Crowley. And sometimes he remembers the times that they made him eat bacon in the Cage. Made from his own thighs. He has good days and bad days, you know.” He grinned nastily. 

“So what do I have to do for him to… not have a bad day?"”

“Well, not chaining him up would be a good start. Things that don’t remind him of the Cage. You know. It’s been a really long time since he’s had one of these. Not since –“

“Two months after you went to Purgatory. Yes, thank you. Basically what you’re saying is to ride it out because there’s nothing I can do to ease him out of it.”

“Pretty much. Although I’d get all that bacon out of the room.” 

Crowley hung up. Dean snickered again. 

***

Sam woke up in the same position he’d been in when he’d flashed back, which was good. Well, it was probably good. If he were still in the Cage it wouldn’t mean anything. The pain in his elbow strongly suggested that he was in the living world, though, and the aches in his neck and his back and his feet and his shoulders all backed him up on that. His throat, too, ached as though he’d been screaming. Great. He’d probably lost it, lost control in front of Crowley of all people. Fantastic. It wasn’t enough that he’d witnessed parts of the reality of the Cage, it wasn’t enough that he’d been right there for his breakdown in front of Dean in the church, he’d had to see him fall apart like some kind of a raving animal. Who knew what had even set him off this time? Oh, right – bacon. Yeah, that was a big one, which was a shame. He’d actually kind of liked bacon. Still did sometimes. Of course, given that it was Crowley there was no telling where the bacon actually came from.

All he needed was to turn Wendigo on top of being an abomination. 

The door opened. “Well that was exciting,” Crowley said brightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with essentially one arm come so close to breaking their chains before.” 

“Adrenaline’s a bitch, isn’t it?” he smirked back. He accepted the fresh bottle of water his captor opened in front of him. 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever heard of bacon as a trigger before.” 

“Spend that long with those two you’d be amazed at what can become a trigger.” He snorted. “The ‘Father of your Race’ is pretty creative, I’ll give him that much.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. I take it Michael was less so?”

“Not so much with the free thinking, that Michael.” He sighed. “Honestly – I mean, they’re both horrible. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone, I wouldn’t wish them on you. Not alone, not together. But you could at least have a conversation with Lucifer.”

“Really?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “How’d that work out for you?” 

“Well, painfully, as a general rule. But you could ask him things and he’d be happy to tell you before he pulled your intestines apart. He liked to talk. He liked to think of himself as a teacher. I guess in a way he was.” He shrugged, or at least shrugged as well as he could.

“And what did you learn from him, Sam?” Crowley leaned forward, chin on his hand. The guy actually seemed interested, in ways that – well, no one had been, not since he’d gotten out. 

“Pain, mostly. And that I’m just about the worst person on the planet, but that happened to be a point on which I was previously informed.” He grimaced wryly. “Plenty of science, plenty about obscure languages, evolution, history. Lots of time to study, after all.” He accepted more of the water. “Any word on Abaddon’s location yet?” 

“Sadly, no. She’s fairly adept at hiding herself.” 

“So why allow it?” 

Crowley blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I can summon a demon. Hell, I’ve summoned you. Specific demons can be summoned. She’s a Knight of Hell, sure. My father – probably stoned to the gills on pain meds and more than half drunk besides – summoned Azazel. You can do this, Crowley.” He tried to put as much sincerity into his voice as he could.

“I can.” The demon’s voice was hesitant, “but should I? I’m much more of a kick ‘em when they’re down kind of fighter.”

It was true. “It’s up to you, of course. You know what works best with the forces you have under your control. Me, I’m just a hunter. I’ve never led anything. Can’t even keep my brother out of trouble. But I can see when a strategy isn’t getting you anywhere, and it doesn’t look like this one is getting you terribly far. Am I right?”

“I think we’ve still got time, Sam.” 

“Do you?” He thought of all of those jars. “She’s creating an army. She’s stealing human souls from living people – no deals, no bargains, just outright taking them from living people – and twisting them into demons to create a demon army loyal only to her. No integrity. No contracts. No order.” He knew what Crowley cared about, after all. 

Crowley rose to his feet. “She’s what?” 

“I don’t know how many folks know about it. But yeah. No more natural process.” If you could call soul-selling natural process, he added mentally. “The time for subtlety has passed. I mean, sure, if you can pull it off great. I’m wondering if it’s still possible. Dean’s still back at the bunker, right?” 

“Of course, as far as I know. Why?”

“Tell him to start looking for more signs of soulless people – there should be a stack of data on my desk. He’ll know what to do.”

Crowley fixed him with a look. “Why would you help me?”

“About something as serious as this? Crowley, I’m not going to lie to you or trick you. Not about something as serious as what Abaddon’s doing with the souls. Did you send him home with the First Blade?”

“Were you dropped on your head as a child? If I give him that thing he’s got no leash, has he? No, it’s safe.” 

“But you can’t keep it near Cain because of the Mark on him, too.” He nodded. “Good thinking, Crowley. You did good.”

Against all odds, the demon beamed. “Thanks, Moose.” Sam wasn’t sure what repulsed him more – the idea that Crowley was actually looking to him for approval or the idea that he was willing to pretend to give it to him in exchange for a little information. Crowley took out another of those mammoth syringes and took another “donation” before leaving the room. 

Sam needed to work quickly; he had no idea how much time he had. He closed his eyes and exhaled, forcefully. Then he opened them again and concentrated. He’d never really worked to develop this ability. It was there, like all of Azazel’s other “gifts.” Maybe it would have gone somewhere if he’d given into it earlier and done something with it like the other psychic kids but he’d always tried to swallow that stuff down and ignore it, like Dean and Bobby told him. Maybe it wasn’t something that came from Azazel anyway, maybe it would always have been a part of him. For now he didn’t care. For now he focused on those padlocks, taking all of that anger and all of that pain and everything that Crowley had brought to the surface with those ill-timed flashbacks and aiming them at the seals like a scalpel. 

It took a long time – a good forty-five minutes by his watch – and it hurt his head something fierce. Bile rose in his throat but he couldn’t stop for a migraine, not now. There was no time. It didn’t take long to carefully shrug out of his chains and yes, he was stiff after sitting so still for so long. He took a moment to stretch – carefully thanks to the arm – and then he cast about for something to paint with. Two meals’ worth of yogurt and oatmeal would have to do. He sketched out the devils’ trap in the doorway quickly. Then he glanced at the table with the computer on it. Crowley had even left his phone on it. He grabbed the phone and then he kicked over the two chairs. Both demon guards came rushing in, just as expected, and just as expected they found themelves caught in the devil’s trap because Sam had drawn it in such a way that it could hold two demons. He didn’t waste time but got right to the exorcism, because a devil’s trap made from yogurt and oatmeal isn’t going to hold for long. It held long enough that a suitable quantity of black smoke was belched out and two unconscious humans were left on the floor. If he’d been capable he’d have tried to rescue them, but he didn’t have the strength to do it with one arm from a basement. For now, it would have to be enough that they weren’t possessed anymore. 

He briefly reached out to detect the location of the other demons. It didn’t sound like anyone had noticed anything amiss yet; no one was moving around much, except maybe Cain. The guy tended to pace a lot, though, probably looking for arms to break or something. He looked to the left and to the right. There were exit signs on brick walls at both ends of a long corridor. Most of the demons were toward the left so he took off toward the right. A quick run up some stairs brought him to the back door of a small brick office building. And waiting outside was a brilliant white classic Aston Martin. He glanced around. No cameras. This had to be Crowley’s car. The top was down so it didn’t take Sam more than half a second to get inside. He might not have his tools or anything but that was okay. Crowley had a tool kit in the trunk. British cars of a certain vintage couldn’t go without them. He also had a curse box back there.

Sam laughed out loud when he saw what was in the curse box. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to hotwire the car. He waited an hour before searching for hex bags and using his own blood to paint a warding sigil on the hood. Then he called Dean. “Hey, Dean,” he said. “I’m on my way home. Crowley’s not going to be able to hold the First Blade over your head anymore.”

“Great. He freaking lost it,” Dean spat. Sam could hear him slam his fist into a wall. 

“Yeah. He did. But, uh, I know where it is. I should be there in a bout ten hours. Have a bay ready in the garage for me.” 

Sam leaned back. Nice suit, nice car, and if the aftermarket sound system only seemed to play “Best of Queen” – well, that was something he could fix later.


End file.
